


Filipendulous

by orithea (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:52:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orithea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filipendulous: suspended by, or strung upon, a thread.</p><p>A collection of occasions when Mycroft's thread of control begins to unravel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a one-shot response to a prompt from [anglophrenic](http://anglophrenic.tumblr.com) ("Mycroft comes undone.") but turned into a little series.

“Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”

“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

It was Mycroft’s reminder to himself, as well.

\---

“How are things? Was the vacation …” Mycroft trails off delicately. He hardly needs to ask the question—the answer is written there on Greg’s hand: tanned, no ring, an obvious pale line to show that it was removed after rather than before—but Mycroft believes in courtesy.

Greg scrubs his hands over his face. He’s sitting slumped in a chair in the Stranger’s Room at The Diogenes Club, a position he’s found himself in increasingly often in the past few months. “Obvious, isn’t it? Don’t know why I bothered to try, really. Too stubborn to let go, I suppose.”

“Too forgiving,” Mycroft corrects. “It’s not typically a fault—only when it’s taken advantage of.”

Greg gives him a slow smile. “You always know how to make the situation sound better than it is.”

Mycroft tips his head in modest acknowledgement. “Gregory … if you need anything, with all that’s going on—you will let me know?”

“Yeah, I will,” Greg agrees easily. “What I could do with now is a distraction, honestly.”

“I’m unsure as to whether my brother is best described as a distraction or an inconvenience, but he’s yours to handle if you wish. Up to no good in Dartmoor; he used my name to sneak onto a military base with the help of Captain Watson.” Mycroft’s smile is tight and unamused.

Greg, in contrast, laughs. “I can take care of that. Just don’t tell him you sent me, would you?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “As though either of us could keep a secret from Sherlock.”

\---

It was meant to be a tightly controlled plan. Let Moriarty believe that he’d had the upper hand, been given all of the facts needed to successfully execute his own plan to bring down Sherlock. They were lies, of course—based on enough truth to satisfy the madman, but rife with falsehoods that would leave holes in Moriarty’s story designed to discredit Sherlock entirely.

But Mycroft underestimated Moriarty. It’s not just Sherlock that he’s out to hurt.

“There are three gunmen,” Sherlock informs him over the phone. It’s early morning, John is still asleep in the lab, and there are a few final pieces to set in motion.

“We were told two,” Mycroft counters. “One for John, one for Mrs. Hudson.”

“There’s another, I’m sure of it.” Sherlock hesitates, to let him draw his own conclusion.

“And one for Lestrade,” Mycroft says, voice gone hard.

“Yes.” Sherlock says. “I believe that one is a message for you: don’t interfere.”

“A message I choose to ignore. You’re ready?”

Sherlock looks over to John, watches the slow rise and fall of his breath before he answers. “Yes. I’m ready.” He hangs up and tucks his phone away.

Mycroft returns his phone to the receiver calmly and sits in silence for only a moment before he comes undone. He strikes out, knocking papers and his favorite mug from the desk, and leaving an antique lamp teetering precariously on the edge, in danger of falling. His face falls into his hands, which then slide into his hair in frustration. He collects himself from the momentary lapse of control and reaches for the phone again.

“We have a complication,” he informs the person on the other end. “Here is how we’ll fix it.”

\---

They go after the shooter who was trained on Greg first. Mycroft has only once been directly involved in an operation—his function is primarily behind the scenes orchestration. This time he is the one who gives the kill order; it does not trouble him in the slightest. Mycroft would not have hesitated to pull the trigger himself if it were not an action that would have exposed more about himself than he wished to share with his colleagues.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Jude](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas/pseuds/wiggleofjudas) for the beta read and encouragement, as always.

“How are you managing?” Greg asks gently. He looks genuinely concerned. It’s an unfamiliar expression for anyone to direct towards Mycroft Holmes. It has been a month since Sherlock’s death, and this meeting—drinks in the Stranger’s Room, at Greg’s request—is the first that Mycroft and Greg have seen of each other since the immediate aftermath of the event. There was no funeral.

Mycroft gives him a tight smile. “Fine. It’s hardly different, now, in most ways.” Greg will be expecting a more complicated, more emotional answer. Mycroft would rather not lie to him. Half-truths will have to suffice.

Unexpectedly, Greg lets out a dark chuckle. “Christ, you’re a throwback aren’t you?” He takes a long swallow of his scotch and grimaces through the burn. Twenty-one-year-old scotch from a bottle that cost hundreds of pounds, and the man hardly takes the time to savour it.

“What?” Mycroft asks, narrowing his eyes. He has disappointed Greg. Mycroft, in turn, is disappointed that Greg presumed him so sentimental.

“Thought it was just a myth that they teach you lot all about keeping a stiff upper lip at public school, but I’m starting to think there must be some truth to it.”

“You’re frustrated,” Mycroft says, leaning fractionally away from Greg and crossing his legs at the knee. He sets his glass aside and crosses his arms over his chest. Defensive posture. He ought not give in to the impulse. “Don’t take it out on me.”

“I’m frustrated _with_ you,” Greg shoots back.

“Why?” Mycroft asks coolly. “Because I’m not rending my garments and publicly lamenting the loss of a brother foolish enough to succumb to the consequences of a situation of his own making? He chose to tangle with Jim Moriarty, despite being well aware of the things that man was capable of.”

“Because he was your brother, and you don’t care!” Greg’s tone is heated, and Mycroft flashes his eyes towards the door as a reminder of where they are. Following the motion and understanding, Greg sighs deeply and is more collected when he follows up. “You don’t care about what they’re saying about him in the papers, still. A month later and there are all these lies. You could stop it; I know you could.”

“What would be the point? It’s hardly hurting _his_ feelings.”

Greg sighs, brushes a hand through his hair in frustration. “There’s the rest of us, all his friends who know the truth and have to defend him.”

“And why would you feel the need to defend him?” Mycroft raises a brow in challenge. “You know that the whole thing will be forgotten within a matter of time. After that point, we can begin to clear his name, if it is even necessary. With both parties dead, it hardly matters in the end.”

Greg gives him a look that speaks volumes. _Mycroft Holmes, you are a smart man_ , it says, as a preface for the actual words that follow. “D’you think any of us who _know_ , who realise that he was the real thing, can stand to listen to that complete, utter rubbish they’re saying? And I mean, it barely impacts me professionally, because I did some upstanding paperwork to back up all of Sherlock’s cases. But John—do you really think that John Watson can sit by and hear what they’re saying without doing something about it?”

“John is fine.”

“It was his birthday last week,” Greg says and pauses. Mycroft nods; he knew. He gestures for Greg to continue. “It was the saddest fucking birthday party I’ve ever been a part of, and that includes a couple of honestly depressing ones with—well, you know. But me and Molly just had to get him out of that flat. She tracked down some of his mates that she read about on his blog”—That was Sherlock’s doing, Mycroft knew, because Ms. Hooper’s otherwise respectable talents did not lie in the area of computer research—”and got them to come out to the pub, try to cheer him up, but you can just tell that the man is hurting.”

“Yes, well, you would expect as much, wouldn’t you? They were… quite close.”

“I’d expect as much from _you_ ,” Greg says with exasperation.

Mycroft raises a hand—a motion to stop. “There was little love lost between us, but if you must be reassured—yes. Yes, I do miss my brother. Yes, I wish that none of this had happened the way that it did, but we cannot change that it did; we can only continue to move on.”

Greg nods, evidently appeased somewhat by the explanation. “Speaking of, John’s leaving Baker Street. Says it’s too much for him there. Not that I blame him a bit.”

This is Mycroft’s first surprise of the conversation. He has been watching John very carefully; John must have known and taken pains to work around the fact without raising suspicion. Learned far too much from Sherlock. “He is? I wasn’t aware.”

“Hmm, didn’t realise that was possible,” Greg says, with just a hint of a sly grin. Back to their usual sort of banter, anger seemingly forgotten. Too forgiving, always.

\---

“It is not necessary that you leave Baker Street, John,” Mycroft says. His words are slow and carefully chosen as they stand in the doorway to the building. John’s refusal to enter the building or even into the café indicates that the situation is more tense than Mycroft had anticipated. Typical of John Watson—unpredictable at times, not a perfectly constant variable to be relied upon when making calculations. Sherlock appreciates that about him; Mycroft finds it intolerable. Where Sherlock thrives on chaos, Mycroft prefers order, and will go to many lengths to maintain it.

John gives a harsh laugh in response. “It is necessary. Absolutely necessary. It’s like living with your brother’s ghost in there, and I can’t keep doing it.” His grip shifts around the cardboard box that he was carrying when Mycroft confronted him outside of the flat. It’s not large enough to be cumbersome, fits easily under the arm, but clearly heavier than the dimensions would indicate—most likely objects of personal import. There was no cab waiting, so the new flat must be within an easily walkable distance. No one, not even a man as stubborn as John Watson, would like to carry a box like that very far. Mycroft is unsure where he’s set himself up, but it’s only a matter of time before he finds out.

“Central London, prime location. Not entirely affordable when subsisting on infrequent locum work, is it?” Mycroft raises an eyebrow, more challenge than simple question.

John, already strung tight, squares his shoulders a little more strongly, tilts his chin with a decidedly defiant air. Talking with Mycroft has eased the tremor in his left hand; Sherlock would be proud to see that. “None of your business how I manage it, really. Nothing about me is your business, not any longer.”

Mycroft sighs. “Certain provisions were made. Requests. My part of it was to keep Baker Street available to you and to ease the burden on Mrs. Hudson.”

“Requests from Sherlock?” A slight affirmative tilt of Mycroft’s head before John continues. “Well, he’s hardly going to know, is he? Awfully sentimental of you, honoring his wishes.”

“They were not only his wishes, but mine as well. There are still those out there who would do you harm for your association with my brother.”

“Right.” John purses his lips, then stretches them into a tight line. “Right, they’d care so much about my blogging about him now that they’ve killed him and discredited him. No, I think you’re just not ready to give up control and stop spying on me. I don’t know if it’s some misplaced sense of responsi—”

“I’m not controlling you, I’m trying to keep you safe!” Mycroft snaps, cutting him off. He is aware that his anger shows on his face, and that John is unaccustomed to seeing him this way when not goaded on by Sherlock. It is a momentary lapse, and he schools himself into order immediately.

There is a flash of surprise in John’s face, before his features settle back into hardness as well. “You don’t have to worry about keeping me safe. That’s what you did for your brother and we see where he ended up. Kept him so very safe, when you told Moriarty every last thing he needed to know.”

“You know _nothing_.” Mycroft says, tone all ice. “By all means, go running off chasing after culprits you know nothing about. Keep publicly denying that he was a fraud. Bring down all of his carefully orchestrated work—set in place to ensure your safety, by the way—but do not ask for my help after you’ve done it.”

Mycroft has said more than he should have. He turns on his heel to leave, John staring after him, before he can say more.

\---

“We’ll watch him from a distance. No more of this—I can’t. I won’t.”

“You always have hated legwork,” Sherlock sneers. He looks entirely different now, a month after his supposed death. Hair shorn close, bleached to ginger, and clad in jeans and well-worn, bordering on grotty, jumpers—all of it helps him to blend in with his homeless network around London and pass unnoticed. His manners, however, are as infuriating as ever.

“It has little enough to do with that. I think you’ve overestimated my influence on your flatmate.”

“Possible, though far more likely that you took his comments personally and cocked it up on your own.”

Mycroft’s nostrils flare. “Your distasteful associates are rubbing off on you,” he says, to deflect the real source of his anger. Sherlock’s comment is, of course, correct.

The incident is a blessing in the end, however. It is much easier to introduce Mary Morstan into John’s life and have her do the watching, to have her keep Mycroft and Sherlock appraised of any potential threats that may arise until the business is finished.


End file.
